Blue. Of the color whose hue is
that of the clear sky.
Blue. Low in spirits. Melancholy.
Blue. Music. Of, relating to, or
used in blues.
Blue. Profane, indecent.
Blue. Sky. The Far Distance
(disappeared into the blue).
(Merriam-Webster.)
Blue. How do you describe the word?
Is it a color? Is in an emotion? An expanse? How does a color that conveys such
abject beauty also hold such sorrow in her hands? Two weeks pre-race, I am
surveying the start of the course, hoping to loop around to the finish, but am
obstructed by snow banks. I cannot follow the small trail ahead of me,
continually finding myself lost in the forest. I search for the lighter brown
in between the largess of white and the grandeur of green and blue above. I give up and retrace my steps. I seek out my
photo of Marlette Lake below Lake Tahoe: small blue beneath larger blue. Before
descending Canyon Road, I find a bench perched just above the waters of
Marlette Lake. I sit and think about the race that looms before me. I am
excited and fearful of the journey, as is apt for the situation at hand. I
think of my father, whose memories flood the lake for me. Blue turns to purple
hues as I cry. I am grateful for the quiet bench, for the unending blue before
me, for the surround of green, for some solitude to let out the emotions that
can get lost in a world that is too much grey.
I title my Strava run-hike “Blue”, an homage to Joni Mitchell, a play on
words to contrast between the unending waters before me and the melancholy that
fills me.
This race is complicated for me. I
know from my training runs that it will be a challenge between the climbs, the
altitude, the snow, never mind the imposition that is the distance itself.
There is also the matter of my heart, of where I want to be, or of where I’m
not sure I still want to be. My qualifier attempt at Canyons at the end of
April fell apart due to illness after 40 miles of ear pain. But, I’m fairly
sure part of my heart for running these distances gave way that day. Chasing
the unending hills, the challenging terrain, managing through the heat which is
never in my favor, searching for the joy I once found in ultras. I still have
that joy for the trails, for the beauty, but there is perhaps no need for the
longer than necessary journey to get there. I knew emotionally, I might be out
of the game (that one specifically that will chase me to Squaw some day at the
end of June). I maintained the plan though, I did the training necessary. I
even had moments surrounded by utter grace and peace, more runs than not, along
the way.
But in some ways, something else
broke as I spectated and then paced at Western States three weeks before Tahoe.
The day can come down to so many small factors, or to one ginormous factor, but
to things well out of your control. You can be slowed by snow and mud and then
be chasing time the rest of the day and night until it finally eludes you. You
work years to get there and then have circumstances you can’t really prepare
for. You make it through one stumbling block after another, you give the best
your body and heart have to give, and you come up short. Your race ends before
you’ve reached the track in Auburn and you’re left with blue. Not the beauty of
blue, but just its despair. You try to shift the emotion to something brighter.
You try to find yellow. But blue persists. And I understand and I feel that
ache. Your body sometimes fails you.
I feel fear in the weeks pre-race,
before deciding to let that go. Fear is red; it startles and then paralyzes. I
used to live so much of life within that, but I let it all go. I hadn’t felt
fear before a race in years and had no real interest in inviting her back in to
my life. I shifted to gratitude, to wonder, to an appreciation for the journey.
My goal was simple: finish. It sounds so very simple, doesn’t it? There’s
nothing in the least simple about that. One foot in front of the other until
you finish. 35 hours, 100 miles. Simple.
I prepped all my gear, getting
giddy as I finalized my drop bags. It could have been excitement, but it might
just have been the sugar rush. My husband Jim and daughter Sophie came with me
on the drive to Carson City, going over the mountains and through South Lake
Tahoe in the process. At the Nevada State Capitol, I checked in for the race
and left my drop bags. I was all yellow: bright, eager, ready. Later, before
the race briefing, I connected with my friend Kristen (who had switched from
the 100 to the 55K to instead focus on a later WS qualifier); I was to have
paced her last year at WS before her day ended too soon. (For every friend I
know who has finished the race, there is always another whose dream was
deferred on course.) The reunion is a happy one though and maintains my
positive mindset. The race briefing is quick and to the point. The weather is
stifling: upper 90s. There are few snow patches left on course; they have been
well marked and carved out where feasible. There is a small chance of storms
coming in late Saturday and a decision to hold the race in place until they
pass is made, to avoid the dangers from the 2014 race.
Race morning, I take the shuttle
bus to the start. I sit with my thoughts. I work to remain grounded in my
mantras for the day: Patience and Gratitude. Patience to not overdo it,
patience for the hours it will take, patience to get me through the roadblocks
I will encounter. Gratitude for the opportunity to be here, for those who will
share the journey with me, for the time to myself, for the raw beauty. Arriving
at the start at 4 am, the finishers’ village is homey: large tents, ample
chairs, heat warmers, food, plenty of facilities, friendly fellow racers. We
chat in our nervousness about where we have come from, other races, course
conditions. It is pitch black in the world, but I am surrounded by yellow. Just
before 5 am, a runner comes up to me, “You’re Lorena’s friend!” Indeed, I am
and she will be my pacer from 80 to the finish. Roberto is her neighbor and I
have made a new friend on the trails.
At 5 am, the race officially
starts. 210 other 100-mile runners join me as we set off in the dark. We head
off down the firetrail of North Canyon Road with the blackness of night broken
up by scattered headlamps. There is a slight grade to the road, the atmosphere tinged
with the excitement of Christmas. I know from my training runs on course that
it will take me a few miles to catch my breath as I work to adjust to the
altitude (7000 ft at the start). I am patient, holding my mantra in my hand.
The course joins single track at the end of the mile and we continue to climb
in our conga line (roughly 1100 ft in the first 4 miles). As dawn starts to
break, I catch a glimpse of Marlette Lake through the forest. It stops my
breath for a split second, I take in the wonder of the dark woods interrupted
by the sapphire glass of the water. I grab a photo, as I already know when the
view will greet me.
We run down to the lake. It is a
tranquil morning. The obsidian reflection of the forest strikes the lake’s
water as a bit of orange forms on the horizon below the lightening of the sky.
Gratitude sits with me as I smile. I continue through the wooded fireroad, the
stick like trees forming a canopy to hold us for a moment. We then start the
climb to Hobart. I eat as I climb. I am patient in my pacing. The lungs are
working, the soul has been nourished with the views. The climb up to Hobart
will be another 500 or so feet. I am in and out of the aid station quickly at
mile 7 and carry on the path. I have my camera ready as I climb up to Marlette
Peak. The view at Marlette at 7800 ft was spectacular, but the one 400-500 ft
higher is why you run this race. I am now well above Marlette Lake, catching a
better perspective of its expanse of indigo, rimmed in emerald, the larger
lighter hue of blue from Lake Tahoe behind it, with the white capped mountains
of the West Shore on the horizon. And as we climb, the view improves. I am
yellow and a warm and fuzzy, nurturing, baby blue. My friend Jon is just behind
me on this climb; we chat for a bit about the awe before he moves ahead.
The terrain shifts again as the
trail gives way to small patches of white. Small patches coalesce and become
plains of alabaster. The world is a white field of snow. There is nothing
technical, but it does require some slowing and more careful footfalls, as we
are only 8-9 miles in to the race. I slip and slide a bit, but manage without
becoming a snow angel. There are a couple of larger snow banks, requiring some
climbing, but the race organizers have carved out a path and a stairway to
heaven. Ivory greets the brightening blue sky on the horizon. I have no doubt
why one runs this race. It takes your breath away. (Yes, I’ll get back to that,
later.) After cresting the summit of the trail, the descent to Tunnel Creek is
more runnable. Over the course of the switchbacks down, I peer through windows
made by the trees and rock formations, catching little sparks of sapphire. Much
of the course is a sand path with large grey boulders on either side, alternating
with smaller boulders to navigate directly through. As the descent levels off,
there is a large mossy green pond to my left. I make it to Tunnel Creek at mile
12 (2:55 race clock) and am in and out quickly after grabbing some food and
hydration.
The next 6.5 miles of the course is
the Red House Loop. It’s supposed to be the “hell” of this course. The race
motto is, “A glimpse of heaven, a taste of hell.” The drop down the rutted fire
road is littered with pine cones and spots of water and mud. Even though
descending, it’s hard to pick up much speed given the steepness and the
terrain. After a 1000 ft drop in less than 2 miles, we hit the swamp part of
the course, trekking through drifts of water that culminate in a coursing
creek. The murky brown waters are only about knee high though, much lower than
even two weeks back. The coolness of the water is mildly refreshing though it’s
only 8 am. There is then the gradual climb up the brown of the fire road.
After another mile or two, I spot
the Red House in the distance. Whatever fires of hell are supposed to be
painting it have left it a dark brown. The loop is not what I expected. To get
to the Red House, the road climbs, but it is not nearly as steep as the drop
was. There is another cooling stream to access the aid station; it helps wash
off the bits of grime from the creek. I emerge at Alice in Wonderland’s party:
bright pinks, purples, yellow, red and white mushrooms. The volunteers are
friendly and have made the aid station a bit of brightness breaking up the
muted tones of the forest. I refuel and head on out. It is another climb, but
not so steep. Eventually, we hit a flume trail with a faint imperceptible
incline which is reasonably runnable. On my preview run, my friends and I had
not been able to find the correct trail to the Red House (follow the signs to
Hobart Reservoir after the creek, for future reference), so we did the descent
in reverse with a double swamp crossing. The actual course is much more
forgiving than our route that day, which had given me a sense of the “hell”
moniker.
Because of my prior harder climb
back to Tunnel Creek, I am delightfully surprised by my good fortune. The path
will eventually connect again with where I descended; it is an arduous climb,
but temporary. Through here, I do have the opportunity to give well wishes to
runners in the 55K and 50 miler (which left an hour after the 100 miler), both
the ones passing me on their return and those dropping down as they started
their loop. I maintain my patience; this remains a journey, not a race. Back at
Tunnel Creek, I follow my plan, refueling, grabbing added nutrition and
electrolytes. More importantly, I change my socks which remain soggy from my
swamp life. At Kettle, my lack of sock changes eventually crippled my ability
to run, given horrific blisters. I am managing those things that are within my
control. During my time at Tunnel Creek, I am being waited on by one of the
volunteers. I must commend the lot of them throughout the race- top notch,
filled with generosity and kindness. I thank my own personal volunteer before
heading off, after a quick potty stop.
Over the next three miles to Bull
Wheel, I will cross the 20-mile mark of the race – 1/5th done in
5:10, 30 hours remaining. In some races and circumstances, that amount of time
would seem infinite. And it is in theory. Once you test drive it in reality, you
understand how finite that clock becomes. I’m not there yet though. I am
optimistic, I am on pace. I am being patient, which also means my pizza will be
ready for me by the time I reach mile 30! The race course at this point is
traveling along the Tahoe Rim Trail. It overlooks the Washoe Valley: Washoe
Lake is a muted blue, there is brown in the valley, forested trees still with
me as I travel. As I continue, I pass through a gauntlet of boulders and pop
out on the Lake Tahoe side, where the green of the trees frames the distant
cornflower blue of the lake and the cerulean sky. Bull Wheel at mile 21 is a
quick water stop at the top of Diamond Peak Ski Slope.
Another 4 miles along the TRT
undulates up and down. The lake views disappear and are replaced with brown
stretches of sand and then swaths of white as the snow overtakes this section of
the course. I am patient and work my way through. Eventually, the snow breaks
and I start the drop to Diamond Peak Lodge at Incline Village. We were warned
about the trail being a mountain bikers’ paradise. I have to dodge a couple of
groups; some are better at calling out than others. I am taking my time as the
descent is modestly steep and the trail has been carved out by the bikes,
making for awkward gullies and cambers that my ankles don’t care for. It’s
brown and dusty and the heat of the day is setting in. The whole course has
actually been pretty dusty, between the combination of the dirt and the sand. I
have no idea what the actual temperature is on the mountain; the gages will
read upper 80s for Incline, though it feels much warmer on the exposure at the
top of the Rim Trail. I have slowed down since I left Bull Wheel, but I know I
need to moderate my internal thermostat. The heat is bothering me. I remain on
top of water and electrolytes, I am using a cooling towel around my neck, have
a visor, sunglasses. I cover the first 26.2 miles in 6:52.
 |
| With Jim at mile 30. |
I get excited as I reach
civilization, as I know the Diamond Peak aid station is nearby. I run through
the trail as it narrows and is nearly hidden in the vegetation. I run in and
see my daughter Sophie and husband Jim. I go to the bathroom before anything
else and check in. Then I sit and have lunch: pizza and a Coke! If you’ve never
had this in the middle of an ultra, you are decidedly missing out on the finer
things in life! Have I mentioned the heat? Well, Diamond Peak Lodge is beyond
warm. My drop bag was sitting in the sun and my Body Glide is a soupy mess, as
it has completely melted. I do what I can with it. I change into a new shirt,
new visor, switch out the socks and Run Goo my feet. Another bathroom stop to
wash my hands and rewet my cooling towel. Photos and kisses goodbye and I am
ready to take on the climb! I leave mile 30 at 1:05 pm (8:05 into the race). I
am in amazingly good spirits. I am not going very fast, but I am moving fast
enough. I have stuck to the plan and am giving Patience all the due she wants.
My goal is simple: Finish. I don’t care about the time, well save for under
35:00. I need to be smart about this and preserve my energy to get through the
day. And as I am moving along, I have the benefit of previewing (this is a 50-mile
course x 2 for the 100 miler). It’s either a distinct advantage or torture. I
remain optimistic.
 |
| The first part of the Diamond Peak climb. |
 |
| Still climbing. |
I have done the climb up Diamond
Peak twice before my life: in 2014 in the dark at 4 am while pacing my friend
at her mile 80 and 2 weeks prior on another warm day like today. I have no
delusions about this climb. There is nothing technical like the climb to
Devil’s Thumb, but it’s a steep beast and it is thoroughly exposed. There are
no switchbacks to allay the climb, just 1700 feet up in 2 miles. But there is
nothing to be done but to do it. I know it will be my slowest two miles of the
race, so I care not for looking at the time. The heat is stifling, combined
with the grade, it takes your breath away. During the climb, I become friends
with Bruce. I have mostly had a quiet race, more solo, more introspective than
my usual, but Bruce is a nice distraction from my solitude. Bruce is of course
friends with Lorena (my pending pacer), because, well, Lorena knows everyone.
So that kicks off our conversation. We talk about prior races, mutual friends,
these goals. The climb is hike, hike, hike. Then stop to breathe, breathe,
breathe. I take a rest in every small spot of shade on the mountain. They are
far and few between, so I often must stop to gather my breath before I hit the
next tree cover.
 |
| The view when you look back. |
I take a few photos to try to catch
the grade of the climb and to capture how high up it goes. But I know as I take
the picture that the top of my field is a false summit and there will be
another climb. I’ll know I’m there when I can finally see the top of the chair
lift. The sand on our path is so light, you might mistake it for snow in a
photo. There are snow blowers nearby; I wish they were working. And as I stop
to gather my breath, I keep looking back. Now, during a road race, I would
never look back. But, there is a reason here. Each step takes you a bit higher
and when you look back your view improves and improves. It is a bright and
clear day. The waters of Lake Tahoe are serene and calm from my vantage point
2000 ft up. The waters are a crystal-clear blue, the color of the sky above it,
intersected by the mountains of the West Shore. The pine trees hide the homes
and domestic life of Incline Village, civilization is lost in a rich green. The
work is well worth the beauty that greets me. I finally crest and Bruce and I
cheer. It only took about 70 minutes!
 |
| I am feeling the joy despite the hard work. Bruce is just behind me. |
I refuel at Bull Wheel and chat
with a volunteer as we talk about reasonable length races. The next few miles
back to Tunnel Creek are fun and runnable, aided by the views of Lake Tahoe
which take over my right visual field. I have regrouped from the climb and am
running again, going back and forth with a couple of 50-mile runners. And I am
struck by immense joy. I am nearly in tears. The ability to run through such
terrain, to take in the views that my descriptors and even my camera lens
cannot capture. I have no doubt about why I embark on these journeys. The grace
and awe I am continually greeted with overpowers me. I live for these
weep-worthy moments. This is when I feel the most at home, when I feel a pure
sense of belonging, when I feel at peace. This is the emotion I want to hold on
to. It is clear and it is blue, but it contains no sorrow.
I pass mile 35 at 2:59 pm (9:59
race clock). 25 hours left to cover 65 miles. I remain in the midst of
infinity. I move quickly through Tunnel
Creek and out the other side. I think I did not properly appreciate the descent
going in to Tunnel Creek at mile 12, as I become well aware of the ascent back
to Marlette Peak. I am working hard to
climb and will gain 900 ft over the next few miles. It becomes more pronounced
as I am overheating. I slow and take my time. I hear bells behind me, assume
it’s Bruce (animal scaring tactic…), though it is a mountain biker. Bruce does
eventually pass me somewhere through these miles and I wish him well as he
continues to power hike the mountain.
I eventually break free from the
brown and grey world created by the boulders on the trail and by the trail
itself. As I get closer to the summit, I am greeted by the white world again.
The sun and the passerbys have created a slushy world of the previously packed
snow. The sky has also opened up, being more visible again as I break through
the forest, with the double blue seas on my right: little blue underneath the
big blue. I am struggling a bit to navigate through the white, periodically
sliding out. At one juncture at mile 38, I have to descend a steep bank of
white as the carved-out stairs have been obliterated. I see a tree branch 6-8
feet down from me, worry that if I try to walk down the edge I will be impaled
by it. I settle on the safest measure I can envision. I sit on my bottom and
slide down. Even with my brief pick up in speed, I narrowly avoid a painful
confrontation with the branch. I am instead left with a sore ass and thighs;
sliding through snow in short shorts apparently creates a rug burn phenomena.
I am slogging it through the snow
and continue my slog even as I manage firmer terrain. The views are keeping my
heart going, but the sun and exposure are wilting me. At mile 40, just before I
get to Hobart, I send a message out to my crew/pacers that I have 3 more miles
of snow and climbing before I can descend again. 40 miles at 4:40 pm (11:40
race time). I refuel at Hobart, eating a
quesadilla (corn tortilla; I eat it, but it’s rather dry), use the facilities,
then move on. I should point out that Hobart has a bar (mile 7, mile 40, mile
57, mile 90 and a bar). You know, alcohol, a refreshing beverage, or perhaps
just one to ease or forget your pain. I’ve promised myself I’ll have one when I
return for the final time at mile 90. I will have earned it by then!
I head on my way to Snow Valley
Peak around mile 43. I know I will have another long climb to get there and I
am unsure how much snow will await me. This is the section of trail I could not
navigate through two weeks prior for all the snow banks. Fortunately, much of
the prior snow has melted and the course is perfectly marked. Sadly, I am
struggling more. I can’t seem to get my internal thermostat to work. My system
has gone on the fritz. Any A/C I had on is completely non-functional. I am just
slowing and slowing. I keep moving ahead as best I can. Cognitively, I know I
just need to keep moving forward. My face is flushed. I’m sure it’s red, as it
is warm to the touch. I am so ridiculously overheated. My coolant towel will
work for a bit heading out of the aid stations, but then it will crisp up
again. It’s drying quicker and quicker each time it seems. I guess I’m not
sweating anymore and the dry air and heat of the day just renders it
useless. There have been pockets of the
last couple of miles when there is more wind swirling in the air. I want it to
be cooling and I think it should be, but my temps remain in the red zone.
I think back to what the race
director said about a potential storm and how they would hold the race until it
passed. I’m out in the middle of a mountain, climbing higher, and all I want is
a storm. It would allow me to stop and
rest, give me a reprieve from the clock that has finally starting ticking in my
ear, louder by the mile. I’m working my way to above 9000 ft and I think a
storm will save me. I get back in the forest for a bit and I just feel worse. I
need a break. I find a lovely rock, grey to go with the emotions. I send a
message to my crew: “taking a few minutes to regroup at 42.5- I’m too
overheated.” They are supportive and encouraging. I try to take in my forest
spot, to be in the moment. I can’t see the lake, but the tall trees surrounding
me offer a bit of comfort. I take out some food and eat the multicolored and
multiflavored gummy bears (clear pineapple, red cherry, orange orange, yellow
lemon, green apple). A periodic runner comes by, asks if I’m okay, and I
assent. But I turn my back to the trail and shed a few tears. It’s odd, I no
longer fear the rock to sit on or the act of sitting, as I did before or at
Canyons. I know I need it right now to get back on track. I need to cool down
and continuing to climb will only sabotage that task. It feels short and yet an eternity at the
same time. I sit for 9 minutes.
 |
| My trees at mile 42.5. |
And as simply as it started, it’s
over. I’m back up and moving again. Wipe the tears after my snack, and move on
up the mountain. My core temps are still not where I want or need them to be,
but I’m ready to move on. After a short stretch, I reach another expanse of
snow. I navigate through the white. And even though I’m not quite yet at the
peak, I start to feel refreshed. No, the body and face are still overheated.
But my soul becomes nourished. I am back to those weep worthy views. My earlier
vision of Marlette under the blanket of Tahoe, well it was wow, but this… this
is the why. And it just improves as I
continue, moving to the other side of Marlette. I have found just the right
vantage point for appreciation. Patience has again yielded to Gratitude.
The sky is darkening with a hint of
grey at the edges that yields to an underbelly of white. It could be snow if
the image were reversed. Marlette becomes deepening blue, encased by a rim of
forest green, which separates it from the grandeur of Tahoe. It is approaching
the dimming of the day, as the yellow escapes the clouds. As I move to the
southern end of Marlette, I am back on track. The emotion of the darker blues
of lake under lake help me to move beyond the blues.
I reach the Boy Scout aid station
at Snow Valley Peak and refuel. I am filled with a sense of relief as I know my
descent is through the tent. There are runners in there sitting, shivering,
struggling. I give my thanks and move
out into the wind. The trail will be exposed for a couple of miles as the Tahoe
Rim Trail navigates the ridge line of the eastern shore of Lake Tahoe. The
winds are picking up, causing me to have to hold on to my visor in moments to
keep it from blowing off. I am temporarily cooled, but still hoping to get
cold. I follow the light green fields as blue and white sweeps my right visual
field. I finally start moving faster as
I drop back in to the forest: the trail is light brown, the tree trunks are
deeper browns. I come to terms with what a tough 50 miler this race is. But, it
is also easily the prettiest race I have ever run.
I run, then catch my breath, then
run again, then collect, and the pattern goes on and on. The miles are clicking
away on my watch, but I realize I am being fed false information. I should have
reached the water only aid station by now, set to be 1.7 miles out from
Spooner. It is nowhere in sight as my watch reaches 48 miles, then 48.5 miles,
then 49 miles. I don’t need the refreshment, but I just want mile 50 to arrive.
I am eager for my family, for my pacer Murf. I feel as though I have traveled
through enough emotional lifetimes since I left Diamond Peak 7 hours ago. I
need some nurturing and some distraction. I finally come upon the aid station.
I will reach Spooner at mile 51. My watch makes it to mile 50. I start up the
Strava on my phone and put the watch away to charge.
 |
| When Murf joins me at mile 50. |
In the final stretch to the (non)
finish (for me), the mosquitos take over, jumping on my skin, picking and
prodding at me. It is just before 8 pm. I finally catch sight of Spooner Lake
and the reflections of the dimming of the day. The horizon is a faint yellow,
nearly white, blending in with the cloudland that is obscuring the celestial
blues. I reach the official mile 50 point (51 for me) just past 8 pm, 15 hours
in to my race. I am happily greeted by Jim and Sophie. Murf is also there and
ready to roll. I sit and eat a bit of hamburger (the bun is a bit dry and could
use mustard; I just need calories). I chase it with more pizza and a Coke. I
change my socks, lubricating the feet, which still look good. I repack what I
need, getting my arm sleeves, pulling out my headlamp, bug spray myself. The relief
I had in terms of temperature at the top of the mountain has long since been
gone. The minute I dropped back in to the forest and the closer I came to
Spooner, I was greeted by warmth and a mugginess in the air. I move through the
feeling but can only await darkness, hoping she will grace me with something
close to cold.
 |
| With Sophie at mile 50 dinner stop. |
Murf and I leave Spooner at 8:25
pm. I have 19.5 hours to finish the final 50 miles. I am not focused on the
time though, as I need to instead just keep moving. Though I have traveled this
same route again, this second time will be different. I am no longer alone, but
instead of darkness lifting, it is just setting in. As Murf and I head out on
North Canyon Road, passing the meadow yields a sky littered with a deep violet purple,
dancing with hot pink and warm yellow tones. I capture the final photo of the
day as black will take over in the next mile. I am starting over in essence.
Murf is chatty and we start talking about a bit of everything. The talking is
becoming harder for me, though. We are climbing over these first few miles out
and I am working to breathe. Murf asks when I can run. I do in very, very brief
segments, but mostly am focused on power walking and hiking. It’s as though I’m
having to start over and readjust to the altitude again. There are moments when
I call out to hold Murf off from progressing. I stand and catch my breath
before moving forward yet again.
We eventually come towards the
shores of Marlette. There is no photo to capture the shades of charcoal on
deeper black. It would be more calming if it weren’t so hot. On the road out of
Marlette, I manage to jog a bit, taking advantage of the down. But then we are
quickly at another uphill to get to Hobart and I am back to walking. Along this
stretch we pass a runner lying on the ground of the fireroad, “I just needed to
rest.” She is with her pacer, assents she has what she needs, and we continue,
going back and forth with a solo skirted runner. On the climb to Hobart, I have
to periodically stop to gather my breath. Climb a bit, stop, breathe, climb
some more. This is becoming the pattern of my evening. It is as though I am
back to climbing Diamond Peak, but this grade, it is not nearly as steep and it
is not nearly as hot either.
I guess I should mention I have
asthma. Pre-race, I knew it would be my greatest liability on this course.
Since my training runs went fine without any significant asthma complications,
I was optimistic it would not be an issue during the race. The race was
extremely dusty during the day on the first loop, but I was breathing okay. I
took my time on the climbs because I knew I had to in order to moderate the
asthma. But the heat was my greater villain in daylight and I never felt
significantly out of breath. We reach Hobart at course mile 57 and I am well
aware that my pace has fallen off; it is just past 11 pm (18+ hours in to the
race). The bar is still there and bartender is ready to serve me; I settle for
some Coke as I’m waiting for mile 90.
We head out to Marlette Peak. The world
has become shades of onyx on the horizon, though you can still make out baby
black under big momma black. There is a faint glimmer of lights well across the
sea of black. I must pause as we climb, taking a few seconds at a time to try
to get air. The air starts to feel so much thinner and I can barely grasp it.
We reach the fields of snow again, the white has started to harden again, steps
have been reconstructed where I had my slide earlier. The white reflects in the
night. This expanse to Tunnel Creek is a climb, followed primarily by a
descent. The climbs gradually become shorter and shorter in length, but I start
to have more and more trouble navigating them. I climb a bit, but then just
standing to rest and catch my breath is not enough. My heart rate keeps
spiking. I am working too hard to breathe. I need to sit on rock, after rock,
after rock to try to slow down the thunder of my heart.
Murf is working hard to try to
distract me. His words wash over me, but then I lose them as I can’t keep up. I
try to focus on them, but they are beyond my reach. I get to the point where I
can’t call out. I no longer have the lung capacity. The slightest inclines
start to rob me of my breath. I eventually sit on a rock. I need to get some
air. The night, its darkness, envelops me. I expend enough energy for a few
tears, as I don’t think they require breathing. Murf comes back to me and I
still need some more time before I can get up and try to move. Breathing, it
seems, is required for walking. I figure I am 1-2 miles out from Tunnel Creek.
I eventually get up and we continue on.
That ticking clock; it’s suddenly gone. I can’t think beyond getting to
mile 62. I could have a million hours left in this race; it won’t matter if I
can’t breathe. I move through the black, painfully slowly, pausing as needed to
slow the heart rate, to gather the breath.
I reach Tunnel Creek, mile 62, and
head to the Medical Tent. It’s probably just after 1 am (20 hours race time). I
am given a seat, Murf another. I talk with one of the 3rd year
Family Practice residents from Reno, explain my asthma woes. Unfortunately,
there is nothing to treat my asthma here; we both know a nebulizer would be
fantastic, but we are on the top of the Tahoe Rim Trail, so it is not to be
had. He does listen to my lungs; they don’t sound horrible. My pulse Ox is
normal. I didn’t doubt I was oxygenating fine while sitting down. I do take a
couple hits from my inhaler. The consensus is that I live at sea level and am
currently at 8000+ ft, so while I did fine on training runs, I also was not
covering this distance nor this amount of time on the mountain then. I eat and
fuel when I’m sitting. Someone mentions prednisone might help. Oddly enough, I
happen to have some in my pack (left over meds from Canyons due to poison oak
at the time), and take one.
Murf and I strategize. I have
updated Jim and Lorena. I debate about where I go from here and whether this is
where my race ends. As others weave in and out of medical, I receive some
comments about how good I look. Sitting, not climbing. I take care of my feet
to prep if I decide to venture out; even medical thinks they look fantastic. I
am developing chills and start to shiver. I have not been cold for one minute
of this race. I get a quarter zip out of my drop bag and hand back the blanket
they have enveloped around me. My doctor checks my lungs again; they sound
better. The next section, the Red House Loop, is a 6.5-mile loop that takes me
right back here. I know I have to give it a try. I need to see if there is any
chance. No regrets. We leave mile 62 at
2:04 am (21:04 race clock).
We are back on the “taste of hell”
section of the course. But something magical happens. I feel not so bad. We
descend and are taking our time due to darkness, but I am cool and finally not
overheated. I am moving again. We get through the swamp and the water feels
good. The climbing starts on the way out of the water. I feel energy returning.
I am power hiking again. But most importantly, I am breathing. I can carry on a
conversation again. I am moving, moving, moving. I feel hope. It is bright and
yellow and wraps me up like a warm blanket. Murf and I strategize, we start
making plans. I know the time will be tight, but I can make it. I need to get
to Diamond Peak by 8 am and I will make it. We sail through the Red House aid
station, a quick hello, thank you, goodbye, with a few Oreos for the hike. The
day is lightening even though the exterior world remains black. I hold on to
the yellow.
When I reach Tunnel Creek again,
one of medical volunteers gives me kudos for pushing the loop and encourages me
on. I quickly change my socks to have dry feet, use the facilities, fuel, and
leave mile 68.5 at 4:21 am (23:21 race clock).
A bit over 50K remaining and 11.5 hours. We are back to power hiking as there is some
climbing again in the next section. I know daylight will be coming soon. I am
moving and full of hope, eager again.
But just as quickly as the emotion
greeted me, I lose her. On the slow climb overlooking Washoe Valley, my heart
rate starts ticking up. I start struggling again to find my breath. I have to
stop. I walk a few more feet, then I have to sit on yet another grey boulder. It
is about 5 am. I take another couple of hits of my inhaler. Maybe I can
recover. I sit and wait a bit. I eventually move on, but keep having to stop to
catch my breath. The joy that came with my optimism on the Red House Loop is
fading. I try to grasp and hold on to her, but my lungs are interfering with my
fantasy. I acquiesce to reality as the daylight slowly rises. The blackness of
night shifts to a slow grey blue, then to a lighter blue with a pale pink on
the horizon. I cross over the boulders and am back overlooking Lake Tahoe.
There is nothing but beauty in the world before me. I wish I could breathe
enough to walk along her side.
Murf and I confirm my
inevitability. I text Jim and Lorena, “No – I’m not going to make it today/
feeling worse.” The next aid station is Bull Wheel (mile 71.5), technically
it’s just a water stop. I’m not sure of they will let me drop there; if not,
I’ll have to plod along to mile 80 at Diamond Peak. I know it will take a few
slow painful hours. I am walking along, taking my time, and I let the emotions
trickle out of me. Along this stretch, a periodic runner will pass us, making
headway, knowing the clock is ticking, checking in. Other runners are returning
from Diamond Peak, at their mile 82+. Jon is on his return; I wish him well and
advise of my fate. He looks good and will finish strong.
The clock has stopped ticking for
me. There is no amount of time that will rescue me from my lungs. I want to
savor the daybreak before I work my way back to civilization. I need a few
moments to say my farewells to this race day. We come across a step-up of
rocks. I find an ashen boulder to sit on. It is 5:38 am. It is not the
prettiest view I have had all race, but it’s pretty enough. Everything before
me is a muted blue, intermixed with grey, not quite enough pink: “No mercy from
Turbulent Indigo.” (A Joni Mitchell song about Vincent Van Gogh.) The bright
blues of yesterday were hope and clarity. They were sharp and precise, in line
with my one simple goal: To Finish. On the other side of the black night, is
loss and sorrow and uncertainty. I am blue. I sit and I weep. The trickle
becomes a stream.
I gather myself and we move on.
Bull Wheel is not far away. I am given permission to drop there as they radio
down to Diamond Peak. While there is not rescue to be had at the top of Diamond
Peak, it does mean I can walk down the ski slope, instead of having to draw
this ending out for another 8.5 miles. The day breaks further, as deeper blues
now mix with brighter tones of pink and orange. Relief adds to my sorrow.
Descending is just as steep as ascending and still requires stops to catch my
breath. On the way down, those still in this race are going up. Some seem
confused by my direction, others clearly understand. I greet Roberto on his
final ascent, wish him well, give him a hug.
The thing about the descent is you have the view directly in front of
you the entire journey. No need to look behind your shoulder, no need to turn
around to catch it. The immensity of the lake, the grandeur of its blue, might
as well be divine on this Sunday morning. All the stories it might hold. I will
add my own today.
 |
| Not the greeting I wanted to have for Lorena. |
I make it down, I check in with
race personnel, they take my bib from me. It is close to 6:45 am (25:45 race
clock, not that it matters): 75.81 miles covered, over 12,826 ft climbed, at
elevation from 6800 ft to 9000 ft. We
walk outside. Lorena arrives in a few minutes; I thank her for the pacing she
was never able to do and for her support throughout this journey. Just before I
leave, Bruce is arriving at Diamond Peak Lodge. We wish him well; he will
finish. I thank Murf as we drive him back to his car; I could not have made it
through the challenging evening without him.
I will rest and I will cry a river in the coming days. That evening,
Jim, Sophie, and I catch the sunset on the Washoe side of the valley, miles
beneath Tahoe Rim Trail. Sophie may be too young to understand, but Jim knows
the heartbreak I feel. I have found myself here too many times.
This has been a hard race report to
write. I had to step away from it for weeks as I searched for perspective. But
the emotions were too raw. They still are. They still overwhelm me and leave me
back in the space of the final hours of my race. I gave myself permission to do
whatever I wanted for a couple of weeks. Now I’m back to marathon training. I
haven’t been on the trails in 4 weeks, though have made a date with myself to
get back there next week. I go there for the beauty and the peace, but I’m not
sure I’m ready for the sorrow that may now be there. I’ve done what makes
sense, that which is practical. I’m on a waitlist for a 100K Western States
qualifier in October. If need be, I’ll run Rio del Lago 100 miler in November.
I have 4 years invested in this game. I know I’d feel worse and be filled with
regret if I didn’t give it one more shot. I think when I’m ready to walk away
from the Western States dream, it needs to me on my own terms. I don’t want my
body to decide that for me. It can’t be because of my allergies or because of
my asthma. It must be when my heart is done.
I may be full of blue. The colors swirl
around me. I find myself within all the hues of blue: royal, cobalt,
aquamarine, navy, cerulean, baby blue, azure, sapphire. The blues envelop me.
They draw me in even as they trap me. Yet, I can still appreciate all those
facets of blue, all the reasons I am on this journey. I’m not quite done, even
if that means accepting this turbulent indigo.
